


time gone by living in me

by Zeto



Category: Captain America (2011), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Dark fic, M/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Rating: NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeto/pseuds/Zeto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it doesn't hurt much anyway, he tells himself. Bucky doesn't do it to hurt me, he tells himself. He doesn't. He doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	time gone by living in me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at avengerkink.  
> \---When Bucky's dates don't put out, he goes home to little Steve and gets sex anyway, even if Steve doesn't want to give it. He doesn't care if he bruises those tiny wrists while getting what he wants.
> 
> I don't normally write dark fics. Ever. But this one got stuck in my head. Title taken from Jakalope's Tell Me Why song.
> 
>  ETA:
> 
>   
> **WARNING  
>  Sept 3, 2012**  
> 
> 
>  **This is a really dark Bucky/Steve fic. I'm not sure how much more I can emphasize that. If this is not your cup of tea, please turn back now.** I cannot stress this enough. If you read this and do not like it, I will not be held responsible. I have given ample warning in the notes, the tags _and_ the archive warnings.
> 
> Also, I will not tolerate kink-shaming comments.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, cold and alone. He's disoriented for a few moments as he tries to gather his thoughts.

His entire body aches and he gingerly lifts himself up, feeling his bones protest with little creaks. Bucky's jacket slides from his body, puddles into a pile on the floor.

The dim light from the streets casts an orange glow into the room.

He stares down at his shirt, rumpled and soiled. His trousers, his underwear. At the jacket on the floor, smeared with trails of drying white. He's going to need to wash it now; Bucky needs it for tomorrow. His best jacket.

Gritting his teeth, he ignores the sharp twinges of pain in his body, collects the clothes and carries them to the bathtub. Ignores the feel of something slick and wet sliding down his legs. He dumps them in and fills the tub with water and soap. His eyes goes out of focus as he scrubs at the drying stains, the edge of his mind feeling numb. He watches the water turn cloudy.

And he remembers.

 

~*~

 

Steve hears the sound of the front door slamming. Keys jangling, dully thudding as they fall to the floor, forgotten.

“Steve?” comes a familiar voice as Bucky comes into view.

He sees the wrinkled shirt that's partially unbuttoned, the faint imprint of scarlet lipstick on the collar. “Did you have fun?”

The brunet doesn't answer, simply tugs his jacket off and discards it on the back of the couch. He flops down next to Steve.

“What'cha drawing?” he asks instead, peering at the notepad.

It's a picture of the inside of the little café across the street. Vinyl stools and a checkered, tile floor. Worn-out little booths and a tiny stage in the corner. Every little detail, sketched out in pencil. Down to the ratty curtains lining the windows and the large crack on the mirror behind the stage. Lou, the sticky barman who's always there, with his crooked smile and even more crooked sense of humour.

“It's nothing,” he answers with a shrug as he snaps the yellowing notebook shut and leans over to set it on the table.

He starts when he feels Bucky lay a hand on the small of his back.

“Steve,” the broad-shouldered man murmurs as he fumbles with his belt. “I want you.”

“I don't--Bucky, wait--”

But he doesn't wait. Instead, he shoves Steve down and starts pulling at his clothes. Unbuttoning his shirt.

“No, Bucky--” Panic sweeps through his small frame, settling in the bottom of his stomach like a heavy stone as he falls over the arm rest. 

He tries to scrabble away but strong hands, the ones that are always ready with a warm slap to his back, the ones that always protects him from the big bullies, this time they grab his slender hips and pull his body closer to the middle of the couch. They jerks his legs apart, then grab a hold of his belt and take but a few seconds to undo it. Bucky's gotten very good at it. He pulls at the beige slacks, hooks a thumb into Steve's underwear at the same time and yanks them down.

Before Steve can get away, before he can do anything more, he feels Bucky press against him, trapping him beneath a hundred and sixty-four pounds of muscle. Steve tries to turn, but he can't. Bucky's always been stronger than him. Bigger, taller, faster. Better at everything. 

Distantly, he hears a soft whimper, a litany of whispers, of _please don't_ and _stop_ and _no_ over and over, and realizes it came from himself. He's tremoring, shaking, his heart feeling like it's going to explode, jackhammering inside his chest.

Bucky's hand, the same one that's saved him time and time again, slides from his hip and wraps around his cock. To his shame, Steve's prick starts responding. He bites down hard on his lower lip, not that it stops his whimper, not that it stops his traitorous cock from getting stiff. Despite the fact that he doesn't want this, his cock is wet and hard, aching and throbbing as it becomes slippery with precome.

Steve bites back a gasp when Bucky's thumb swipes over the head of his cock, teasing his slit. Each stroke is confident and sure, fingers deftly sparking pleasure through his body. 

He hears the faint rustle of clothing, the sound of something wet and he realizes Bucky is using _his_ precome to slick up his cock. Then that same hand, those same fingers press against him, finding his entrance.

And it burns a little as it forces its way inside of him. Bucky quickly adds a second finger, stretching and scissoring him. Steve's breath hitches, ending in a little gasp. He finds his body, jerking back of its own accord, desperately trying to feel that again, feel those fingers rubbing that spot inside of him. It's relentless, those fingers spearing into his body, wringing little gasps out of him. Bucky's other hand seeks out Steve's cock again, cups the head as he toys with the sensitive slit again. And it's his undoing and he's coming with a strangled moan, Bucky's name falling from his lips.

Bucky pulls his fingers out and Steve hopes against hope that it's over.

Instead, the taller man uses his come to quickly coat his dick. Then he's pressing the hard head against Steve's hole. Pushing, he drives the head inside. He pulls it out and pops it back in. 

Steve grits his teeth, fingers digging into the couch, ignoring Bucky's groan, ignoring his words as he tells Steve how hot he is, how tight, how much he loves to fuck his little hole. Ignores the way Bucky tells him he's so pale and small. Pretends he doesn't hear Bucky tell him he's so delicate, beautiful and so perfect.

Bucky starts off with small, quick jabs. He steadily increases his pace though, pulling out and ramming back into Steve’s enveloping heat, sinking in farther and farther each time. Adjusting his angle, he pulls out completely and then plunges in again. Each hard, heavy thrust propels Steve forward, inch by inch.

Bucky's hips piston forward, stabbing into Steve. Their slick flesh slap together, sweat dripping. Make-shift lube squelching within Steve's body, making these dirty little wet noises as Bucky fucks deeper and deeper into him until he bottoms out. Every jab, every thrust strokes along his tight channel, leaving a trail of scorching heat. He can feel the hard length moving in and out of him, driving into him harder, quicker, battering his insides.

He's not sure how long it's been. A few seconds, a few minutes, ten minutes, twenty. It's an endless cyclone of something winding, coiling, building up within him. Something is gnawing at his insides, in his mind, his head. It's all clouded and muddy, pleasure and pain, warring and mingling. Each stroke pushes him higher and higher. His entire body is burning with need, like there's a fire in his veins, in his blood, burning, burning him from the inside out. 

Bucky takes the smaller man's erection in his hand again, giving it a few, quick strokes. It has Steve biting down hard on his lip, choking back a sob. He can't remember the last time something felt so good, so hot, so wrong. He tells himself he doesn't want this. He doesn't. He doesn't.

He makes one last feeble attempt to push Bucky away, hands pushing at Bucky's hips, but instead, the taller man captures them and hold his wrists tight, even as he pushes Steve's upper body down into the couch. Bucky drapes himself over sweat-slick skin, pressing Steve's wrists above his head. The change in angle has Bucky pressing against his prostate with almost every thrust inside and he rocks back, impaling himself even further. Bucky jabs his cock into him, unyielding, relentless, fucking him rough, his hips snapping forward.

Tasting blood on his tongue, Steve cries out noiselessly, his back arcing as he shatters, as he breaks apart. His muscles clamp down on Bucky’s cock and the brunet lets out a guttural curse, driving in faster and faster, thrusting a few more times before he succumbs to the smooth heat, and tightness of the other man beneath him. His release fills Steve, coating his insides. Everything goes blank and Steve climaxes, mind going blessedly numb, whiting out as he crumbles onto the couch.

 

~*~

 

He remembers.

Everything. As it comes rushing back with crystal-clear clarity.

Stares at the pile of clothes at the bottom of the tub for a long moment before he wrings the water out and hangs them out to dry.

He climbs into the tub and adjusts the water until it's scalding hot, until it turns his pale body a rosy pink colour. He spends countless minutes just letting the water punish his body, let it pound down on his skin, his flesh as he presses his forehead against the tiled wall.

Bucky is his friend. They've known each other since childhood. 

_You're so tight. You're so filthy, so hot._

He's been his protector, time and time again. Always looking out for him. He's always been there for him. Keeping him safe from the bullies, from the tormentors.

_I want you._

And it doesn't hurt much anyway, he tells himself. Bucky doesn't do it to hurt me, he tells himself. He doesn't. He doesn't.

_I love fucking you, love filling your tight little hole. I love making you cry for more. Love watching my cock fill you, fill your hole._

Bucky always comes home to me, he tells himself. That means something. It has to.

_Can you feel me inside of you? Taking my cock so deep. You take every inch. It's like you're sucking me inside, like you can't get enough of this. It's like you were made for this. Made for me to fuck you._

He only does it because he needs Steve. He only does it because he wants him.

_Beautiful. You're beautiful. You're so perfect._

Because he--because he...

_I love you._

Steve's nerveless fingers reach for the soap, fumbles and the bar slips to the ground. He sinks to his knees and picks up the soap. And then he sees it. Freezes on his knees.

His wrists. Buck's grip on his wrists, strong and unforgiving, had been tight enough to leave marks, to bruise his pale skin.

Steve swallows hard and takes the bar of soap frantically to his wrists, scouring as hard as he can. He rubs and rubs, until the skin is raw, but the stains won't go away. I'll wear a long-sleeve shirt tomorrow, he tells himself. It's not a big deal. 

He keeps scrubbing and scrubbing.

But the smudges on his skin won't ever go away.

 

 

 

 


End file.
